The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
Dylan Thomas
Huge firs bordered the narrow trail leading south to the Korcari Wilds. Fissured bark and dense needles absorbed light and sound, shrouding the small party in dim silence. Loghain preached that the greatest hazard in such terrain was deceptive openness. Vision extended for surprisingly long distances. A first impression was of a park. In fact, the bulking trunks and shading light were a treacherous combination. Wynne had seen Loghain's entire twenty-man group of Night Elves trot off and rapidly melt out of sight.
An erratic breeze swirled Wynne's hair about her head like dandelion seeds. Exasperated, she raised her cowl. The Warden wore her hood and black mask, looking - as usual - like a figure in a play. Even when trying to keep stealthy and quiet, Rilian had never mastered the art of thinking herself invisible. As favourite child, performer, and commander, such was anathema to her. Wynne had heard Zevran admonish her many times for being, as he put it, "as stealthy as a peacock".
Suddenly, ahead of Loghain's point position, Ravenous popped out of the forest onto the horse-wide trail. The mabari looked to Rilian, then to Loghain, then back. The Warden spurred her horse, Racer, forward to join Loghain and Rylock. The trio drifted off the trail. Whispering, Loghain said: "My men would have warned of trouble. For whatever reason, they've chosen to let this one pass." He sniffed the air, reminding Wynne of an old wolf. "Leather harness...iron...horse. Grease and wax. A wagon."
Soon enough, even Wynne became aware of the squeak and grind of wagon wheels. Rilian stared - then a wide grin spread across her face, from ear to ear. "Bodahn!"
The Dwarven trader was looking thinner and more harried than when Wynne had last seen him - just before the Warden's army marched to Denerim.
"I've been two days catching up to you," the old dwarf huffed and puffed, as the wagon - driven by his son, the boy with the face of an angel and hands of a Formari - drew nearer. "Was heading to Redcliffe to do business. Ran into a bunch of darkspawn. More than a brood and less than a horde. Out of sorts. Unfriendly. Didn't fancy our chances, so I turned back north after you. Your scouts knew I was there. Brushing tracks. Doubling. Walking hard ground. Not the way to treat a man who wants to help. Could hurt his feelings, make him feel unwelcome."
"Help how?"
"Reach Ostagar. Where you're going, isn't it? Every man should help a Warden. You'll be needing supplies..."
Bodahn's well-oiled smile was sharp as ever. Sighing inwardly, Wynne prepared to part with most of their sovereigns.
Words flew out of the merchant like sparks from kindling. Loghain controlled himself. "You said darkspawn. I need numbers and position. Tell me." His grating tone suggested he was in no mood to bargain. Bodahn swung down from his saddle. Such agility from a man of Bodahn's years startled Wynne, until she remembered that this dwarf had built his entire career on being misjudged.
Bodahn's smile turned ingratiating. "Merchant's life's a hard one, ser. Always poor. Hand to mouth, as they say. Hand to mouth." His gaze slid to the Warden. "The folk of Haven ran me off, 'cause what you did made them angry. Some might say you owe me." Loghain's hands clenched. The wheedling note strangled, as though the Teyrn really had grasped him by the throat. "Ahem. Anyhow, the darkspawn. They're planning an ambush. I can mark the point on your map." He sat down on the nearest rock, hands clasped on a kneecap, preparing to barter. "That horse of yours. Quality. I'd settle for her. If you want to throw in the load."
"What?" Loghain's outrage was a bellow. "For a piece of information?" He grunted. "You told me they're close. South. I'll find them myself."
Bodahn let go of his knee, jerked upright. "That's hard. Oh, that's very hard. Man tries to be neighbourly. Makes a little conversation. Gets taken advantage of. Hard."
Loghain smiled. "Your own fault. You got greedy."
Slowly, dejected, Bodahn moved to his horse. He paused to whisper in the Warden's ear: "If there's anything I can do for you, you have but to ask! I'm sure you'll be pleased with the goods my boy and I have collected. And with your discount..."
Wynne knew - as did Rilian - that Bodahn was the most expensive of all the merchants they had dealings with. But, as a man who trod the length and breadth of Thedas, scavenging in the wake of war and strife, he possessed goods they could not find anywhere else. Rilian's eyes lit up. A magpie by nature - as most City Elves were - she and the dwarf were kindred spirits.
She settled on a fine pair of boots of the same purple-black leather as her Shadow of the Empire armour - a soft, supple material that seemed to absorb light. Intricate runes matched those about the waist and shoulders too closely to be co-incidence.
"A bard's dancing shoes!" Rilian cried in delight, referring to the enchantments that allowed the wearer to leap and dodge with greater ease. The phrase brought a dark scowl to the seamed lines of Loghain's forehead. By the time Rilian had purchased a new sword - a plain iron blade that looked like a plank of wood compared to the light, curved green blade of Elven design she had been given at Redcliffe - extra travel bread and tack, Pir Surana had already materialised from the brush to warn of the darkspawn ambush. With speed a bard might envy, Bodahn melted backward till he was abreast of his wagon. He bid them a hasty farewell, and he and his son rode off along the trail they had just cleared, no doubt hoping to trade with the elusive Dalish.
Loghain's grin was feral: a grizzled, dark-shrouded old wolf anticipating the hunt. Gnarled fingers darted along the outlined ridges and valleys of his map. Pir Surana sketched the ambush site, the camouflage paint that swirled his knife-sharp face spangled with pearls of sweat.
"They have an emissary and two guards up on the High Road - here. Some twenty genlock archers are on the hill opposite. The main mass are in the valley below. Something - ogre, probably - has blocked off the main passage with rubble. We're riding into a trap."
Loghain said: "Bows and magic can give us surprise. We can come on from the rear - spring the trap - tear them apart before they even know we're there. All we have to worry about are the ridges. Crossing them will skyline us, if we're not careful."
The Night Elf pointed. "There and there. Trees and brush. We go that way. It brings us in on the rear flank, not directly behind. We shouldn't be directly behind anyway - when they retreat, we don't want them running over us."
"Good. Warden, you ride with me and ten of Surana's men. Use that mechanical toy to cover us. Surana, we concentrate on the main body. When they rush us, I cover the retreat - my horse is the fastest."
Rilian shrugged and grinned. Ravenous tensed as she ran her hand along his square slab of a head. Muscles bunched and slid under a coat ruddied by twilight. Rilian's eyes were circles of excitement; she blinked continually. "So be it. Saddle up, then, sucker. Keep your dumb butt down."
Loghain scowled. "And you keep that scrawny, plumed little Elven arse of yours out of trouble." He turned to Wynne and Rylock. "Rylock - you're in command of the other half of the pincer. I want you, Wynne and the rest of Surana's men to get up on the High Road, here, using the rubble as cover. Bows, Templar powers and magic should be enough to bring down that emissary."
"Magic is not necessary," Rylock said stiffly. Wynne bristled. Loghain remained unimpressed. "Knight Commander - you may see magic as an unreliable tool - but only a fool turns down a weapon because he has seen it used against him."
A stiff-necked nod conceded the point. Under her breath, but loud enough for Wynne to hear, she muttered, "Ours not to question why..."
Sourly, Wynne pointed out: "You're not the only one being asked to go into battle with a cannon behind as well as in front. One Dispel Magic from you will strip me of protection as well as the emissary."
Rylock blinked in startlement. Her stoic dark eyes conceded the point. She nodded briefly. "You are right - we are in the same position. Once you get the opportunity against the emissary, unleash your power, no matter if I am in the path. Templars always die well. Whether death comes from ahead or behind is immaterial. Likewise, I will use my powers if they are needed, regardless of your position."
Bitterly, Wynne said: "You spent your whole life waiting to die for your cause. You'll have to forgive me if I can't muster the same enthusiasm."
Her sarcastic tone was lost on the Templar, who simply answered: "It isn't the dying that's important. Andraste did not volunteer for the flame. It is to live in the light, whatever it demands of us."
Wynne saw the light behind Rylock's eyes - the same lucent passion that illuminated Rilian when she played and sang, living entirely in the moment, in service to something she could not name. No, Rylock did not need to die to meet the Maker: the adored presence was with her, closer than a lover and brighter than Wynne's Spirit of Faith. Her condescending pity for Rylock - for the grim, loveless childhood - the black-and-white morals - the stunted education - was stained by something unpleasantly like envy.
Rilian signalled the mabari forward. Streaking across the scrub, the dog disappeared into the first copse. The Warden, Loghain and Night Elves followed. Rylock led their group the other way, towards the rubble that rose unevenly up to the ruined stone highway. Lichen and moss were stains of time across the once-white stone. They tied their horses at the base, then began to climb, Rylock leading.
Wynne saw the emissary first: a creature more twisted than Uldred had been, human-like face eroded by decay into shapes of horror. Its mouth was a wet, twisting dark hole as it growled out a sibilant chant. Wynne felt the horror roll over her. It felt like nothing she had ever known: like long-lost hopes, and dust, and death. A sickly, fetid stink that was iron mixed with disease and the congealed blood in phylactery chambers. All around them, the Night Elves were letting fly with arrows: arrows that simply bounced off the invisible shield around the creature. Rylock took the lead, bunched muscles gathering power, eyes shut in concentration. A roiling azure tide built around the Templar; she struck out with the ability known as Holy Smite. The emissary shrugged it off as though nothing had happened.
The shield has absorbed it like any other magic. We can't touch him until we dispel the shield...
The emissary raised its staff in triumph, howling out a series of non-words that reeked of death and hatred, and Wynne saw with despair that she would not be able to dispel the magic in time. Rylock did not hesitate. She ran forward, drawing the monster's attention, ducking and rolling at the last instant as a solid mass budded and bloomed from the staff like a stone rose. The projectile crashed into a crumbling statue of Andraste along the road, inches from where Rylock's head had been. The Templar twisted to her feet, sword leading. The austere face held a withdrawn expression, showing neither fear nor anger. When at rest, Rylock was a lanky, gawky woman - in battle she had the beauty that comes from a thing's absolute fitness for a task. A bird in flight, a ship at sea, Rylock serving the Maker. Wynne could almost see the shadow of light. She engaged the two genlocks guarding their master. The tapestry of steel she wove left a tiny window for her to throw one of Dworkin's grenades.
What's she doing? She must know it will have no more effect than magic against the shield...
Sure enough, the shield kept the grenade from blasting him. But it set fire to the anti-magic sphere. Within the glowing nimbus, the emissary readied yet another spell. Rylock's face grew thin and taut, limned in orange by heat shimmer; despite her faith, Wynne sensed the Templar's instinctive shiver at the smell of fire.
Struggling to keep the two genlocks occupied, Rylock called out:
"When it drops the shield, hit them all with magic." Her white face held no expression, though she clearly expected to die. Wynne's lips cracked into a small, taut smile as she mentally reviewed her arsenal. Not today, Rylock. Neither of us will die today.
Gripping her sword in both hands, Rylock swung upward, striking between the creature's legs. The sphere rippled and shifted, swirling around the blade like a live thing. As she expected, the shield kept the sword from connecting directly with the target - but the fire did its work well enough. The creature danced and howled, hands going to its injury, and Wynne blinked in the sudden darkness that followed the dissipation of the shield. The surge of pain had sufficiently disrupted the emissary's concentration to dispel the protection.
An instant later Wynne's own magic had dropped the emissary - stone dead with the casting of a single spell. Neither Rylock nor the two genlocks were harmed. Rylock's surprise did not break her concentration - it was over in seconds as she parried the first strike, spun about, caught the second creature under the arm as it prepared to strike, then reversed and swung back high, slashing the other across the neck. Then she turned - a look of wonderment on her usually stoic face as she prepared to greet a fellow Templar: for who else could have struck with Holy Smite?
There was only Wynne, still shrouded in the blue glow so like Rylock's own. Shadows fled from them: Wynne saw her own, black and tremulous, rippling between the two spheres of light. She had a moment to think how they must look: two glowing figures in a twilit wilderness.
Explanations would have to wait: mage, Templar and Night Elves took positions along the High Road, firing down into the valley below. On the opposite side, Loghain and Rilian had taken the hill - Warden, Teyrn and Night Elves were doing the same. Arrows took their toll unheeded. The darkspawn in the valley were running up the ridges, towards them, screaming, threatening, dodging from cover to cover. The Warden's face was a pale smear; her expression a caricature of the young woman Wynne knew. Golden eyes ablaze with inhuman passion. Throat muscles ridged like steel cords. Teeth bared in grimace.
"Get some...get some...get some!" she was shrieking, as the Dwarven crossbow reaped a fearsome harvest. When a group of darkspawn bunched below the ridge, she dropped a grenade in their midst. They shattered into a screaming mass of jagged bone and wet black ribbons. Rilian threw back her head, screamed her own name, told all of creation of her power. Wynne, too, felt the smooth mahogany of her staff as an erotic caress. Fire, ice and lightning bloomed like lethal flowers at her command. Instinctively, she controlled her visceral response - shut out the whispers of the demons that urged her on. How many times had she warned young apprentices of the seductive danger of wielding unearned, unchecked power? Seeing that behaviour in Rilian was disturbing.
Loghain shouted: "Warden! Get back!" as the first of the darkspawn crested the hill. Sword slashing, Loghain stood side-by-side with Surana, backed against a fringe of firs. Frenzied darkspawn charged them, screaming. Rilian took up a position to his right, some fifty yards behind. Wynne could not help them - not without injuring her own allies - was forced, along with the Night Elves, to focus her fire on the darkspawn below. From the corner of her eye she saw Loghain being forced backward. Ravenous charged and retreated, savaging attackers. An incredibly tall Hurlock suddenly appeared, rushing at Loghain. The other darkspawn parted like a wave, hearing their champion's roaring war cry. Rilian nocked and sighted. Fired.
The helm exploded off the Hurlock's head, flying high into the air. It spun lazily, like an obscene toy. The darkspawn sprawled on its back. Its pitted and corroded sword, the point stabbed into the earth, swayed back and forth as gently as a reed.
And it was over. A few crossbow bolts at shadowy, fleeing darkspawn. Loghain moving like heavy darkness through the mass of squirming, moaning wounded, cutting throats with the same callous precision he had used on chevaliers after River Dane. Wynne's lightheaded fog of disbelief slowly escalated to nausea at the full realisation of the carnage. But not one of their number had more than bruises.
Grimy, blood-spattered, granite-hard face a mass of planes and angles, Loghain joined them. "They're fleeing. Towards the Wilds. Give them no rest, no chance to regroup. Kill them all."
Saluting, Pir Surana relayed the message. In moments, Loghain and his men were off with a speed and stealth the Warden, mage and Templar could not match. Years of hunting Orlesians like animals had made them a tight unit. Wynne knew the darkspawn would have no chance against the unseen rain of arrows.
Rilian trotted over, Ravenous at her heels. She smiled at both women. The incredible brightness of her widened eyes revealed a fragile edge of control, as though molten lava bubbled beneath a shallow crust.
"Are you alright?" Wynne asked.
Trembling, still on the tender edge of madness, Rilian said, "Nothing. Not a mark. Lucky." The words were breathy. "Ravenous. Small cuts. Look at them. Lying there. Another job done. That's all."
"Done indeed," Rylock said, her own face inscrutable as always, "So tell me, mage: from whom did you learn the Templar powers?"
Wynne felt a small smile ease onto her face: sharp as a knife and not entirely pleasant. "The question you should be asking is: who taught your Order to use mage spells? We Thaumaturgists - those who have mastered the Spirit School - know that spell as Mana Clash. You Templars aren't using Holy powers: you're low-level, artificially-created mages fuelled by lyrium."
White-faced, Rylock broke under her unflinching gaze. She looked away, with the brute incomprehension of a mired animal.
Suddenly, literally a blur, Rilian was in front of Rylock, all eyes and fury. "Cruel and petty," she said accusingly.
Stung, Wynne defended herself. "It is the duty of a Senior Enchanter to speak truth."
"Truth used to wound is no more noble than any other weapon. I expected better of you." Rilian turned to Rylock. "There's something neither of you know about the Warden powers. We ingest a small amount of darkspawn blood. It's what gives us our immunity to taint. It makes us akin to what we're fighting. That doesn't change the honour of what we do, or the purpose."
By now, Rylock had recovered herself. Grasping at what she knew, she said curtly, "So you are telling me that Wardens practise Blood Magic?"
Rilian rolled her eyes. "And as usual my point goes over your head with a foot to spare. As for Blood Magic: you and I have seen enough of real Blood Magic to know the difference. Blood Magic involves a deal with a demon. It allows a mage to shatter bodies and rape minds. Magic that involves blood as a component is not the same thing: else you Templars would all have to turn yourselves in for using phylacteries."
Unable to argue with that, Rylock merely glowered. "You said you had a point?"
"I do. Think about it."
"I will." Rylock turned, moved to saddle her horse with renewed purpose. As an afterthought, she added, "Thank you."
Wynne faced the Warden in disbelief. Voice tight with hurt and outrage, she said, "You didn't seriously just compare mages to darkspawn?"
"Of course not. But Templars and Wardens both take in something of what they fight to give them immunity to it. Rylock is no more a mage than I am a darkspawn. Our powers might not be holy but our purpose is."
Wynne looked into the soft, grave face limned by the hazy evening sun. She and the Warden faced the world across a gulf of differing experience that empathy could not cross. Rilian's worldview was shaped by her friendship with Ser Otto - by the nest of Blood Mages who had preyed on the Alienage till they were rooted out by Ser Otto, Ser Rylock and Ser Tavish. By the sacrifices of Ser Bryant and his men - who had stayed behind to defend Lothering after Loghain had ordered it abandoned as a lost cause. Of course the Alienage lost children to the Circle - but in a community where a mother could expect to lose half her children to starvation, violence or disease such was simply accepted. To the child Rilian, a world where Elven and human children played as equals, ate three square meals a day and read unlimited books, must have seemed like paradise. Perhaps her own dark nest of emotions was no more than self-pity. It was simply that Templars seemed very different as guards than saviours. Not that Greagoir and his men had been cruel - but no laws protected mages. Decency not enforced by law was mere courtesy - an environment that could change according to a Knight-Commander's whim. An apprentice earned her way up the ladder through an unending display of obedience to the Chantry and by becoming the lackey of whichever Enchanter or faction was on the ascendant. Only when they became Senior Enchanters did they gain comparative freedom. Only when the chance for family, flight and freedom had gone beyond recall or desire. Wynne had lost a son. Ines and Sweeney had lost a daughter. Perhaps that was why hearing Rylock spout Chantry doctrine tasted so bitter. Rilian had accused her of using truth as a weapon - but truth was all Wynne had.
But trying to explain all this would be useless. Like all young people, Rilian did not like it when someone she considered a grandmother revealed herself to have a past, a woman's desires, and feet of clay. Never mind that that Wynne knew her own facade of wisdom and experience was paper-thin. It was because Rilian saw her as a grandmother that she trusted her so readily. What puzzled Wynne was Rilian's defence of Jowan, considering her stance on Blood Mages. After Jowan had confessed to summoning the Fade demon, raising the dead and poisoning the Arl, she would have expected Rilian to want to lock him up and throw away the key. But something had happened in that castle that Wynne had not been privy to.
But she must say something to heal the wound between them, ugly and raw. She considered the words carefully; drew a deep breath. Rilian's smile of tentative apology cut off her carefully composed speech.
By the time Loghain had finished the last of the darkspawn the sun was descending across the western horizon in streaks of orange. On Loghain's order, they mounted up and rode onward, heading south-west. Though the horde had come out of the Korcari Wilds, the remaining darkspawn - some thirty thousand - were massed just south of Lake Calenhad, between Redcliffe and Ostagar.
"The Wilds will hide our trail, allowing us to enter the fortress through the western gate, not in the open. The Orlesian tells us the horde has moved on from the fortress, but there may be stragglers."
Wynne considered Loghain's words. "Even so, it'll take more than a day to get through the wetlands. Do we really want to spend the night in the marsh?"
"We can make for Flemeth's hut!" Rilian said brightly.
Loghain's permanent scowl became, if possible, even deeper. Several of the Night Elves made warding signs. Rylock's fingers twitched towards her chest - about to touch the sword of mercy emblazoned across her armour for reassurance - before she stopped herself. She had changed into plain leather armour for the journey, and despised such weakness anyway. At once her expression became even stonier, as if daring anyone to notice.
"Well - she doesn't need it anymore. You'll find the dragon's corpse up on a nearby hill."
Several of the younger Elves shot her looks of awe. Rilian preened. Wynne caught snatches of their conversation: Rilian describing the fearsome battle...Alistair's dazzling swordcraft - her own wild ride upon the dragon's back - the lucky lunge. The fact that it hadn't happened that way at all did not deter her in the least.
Loghain had the look of a man silently wrestling with himself. Wynne had not taken him for the superstitious type - but something was clearly preying on his mind. He shook clear of the thought as a dog shakes off water and decided:
"We'll camp at the hut if the ground is suitable. I'll want a perimeter and double watches at all four compass points."
As they left the rolling foothills of the Southron Hills, the autumn-tinted scrubland gave way to a flat, grim valley. The ground beneath their horses' hooves became increasingly soggy, and the only vegetation in sight were the rushes and cattails that ringed small pools of tea-coloured water. Soon the spongy texture of the peat bog gave way to open wetlands, and the air took on a repressive, swampy tang. There was no sign of animal life, yet an eerie, insect-like chirruping came from everywhere and nowhere. Bare ground alternated with soggy patches of waist-high marsh-grasses, which swayed and beckoned despite an utter lack of wind. Many of the small pools that dotted the ground bubbled and seethed, sending up gushes of sulphur-scented steam.
"Mmm - sulphur," Rilian said thoughtfully. It appeared that even the repressive ugliness of the landscape hadn't dampened her spirits, "Dworkin was asking me about sulphur. His explosives use it - mixed with charcoal and lyrium sand. I'll let him know we've got a ready supply right here..."
Despite the known and rumoured dangers of the Wilds, their ride was uneventful. Loghain and the Night Elves rode alert guard, listening intently to the strange sounds of the marsh. From no discernible source, the Wilds emitted a cacophony of chirps, pops, groans and belches. The noise was unnerving, and took its toll on Rilian's high-strung horse. Wynne was proud to note that Lady Silverhair's stolid gait remained quite steady. To the west, the mist-shrouded sun hung just above the marsh grass, staining the slate-coloured sky with smears of pink. It seemed so low and solid Wynne felt as if they were riding inside a clam-shell. Around them, the waist-high rushes rustled and shimmered like a living carpet.
Loghain eased his horse deeper into the marsh and made a short, sharp gesture indicating that they should follow. Rilian blinked in startlement, echoing Wynne's surprise that the Teyrn should know the way. The ground was less flat here, and a small hill some hundred yards away bore the ruins of an ancient Tevinter keep. The grey stone was covered all over by velvety moss. The dying light, filtered through the rooftop, was translucent green. It poured over the wooden stockade that crouched in its shadow, as though it stood under water. Wynne recognised the ramshackle hut that the Witch of the Wilds had called home. When they reached the hut, she saw with delight that it overlooked a large, surprisingly clear pool. It undulated gently; rippling darks and lights like some constantly moving chessboard. It must be fed by some underground stream, Wynne thought, for there was no breeze. Marshlights glimmered in the distance; wisps of foxfire that beckoned elusively.
"Surana - I want you, Clayden, Darrian and Aris to keep watch from the keep, the ridge, that small hill, and that mound of rocks." Loghain gestured towards four high points that encircled the clearing. Upon the hillside, the hulking body of the dead dragon served as macabre warning to any who might challenge the party. "Warden: you and I are going to scout for darkspawn."
Rilian gave a resigned shrug and spurred her horse to join him. "I suppose you'll hunt for supper sometime soon?" she asked hopefully.
"Your turn to hunt," Loghain growled.
Rilian's mournful glance took in Rylock and Wynne. She cocked her head towards the hillside and asked in a tentative voice: "Have you ever eaten dragon? I hear it tastes a little like chicken."
Thoroughly appalled, Wynne and Rylock traded glances, for once in total agreement. "If we thought you were serious," the two women said, in almost the same voice, "We'd ride away from here and leave you in the marsh."
"I'll hunt!" Rilian said hastily. "Really!"
A moment later, a cocky grin broke over her face and she trotted over to the pool overhang. Then she lit the fuse on one of Dworkin's grenades. Glancing at Loghain, she smothered laughter. "I wish you could see your face! You must be a really dedicated fisherman."
"I am," Loghain said stiffly.
Rilian winked. "You'll forgive me when you taste one." Then she opened her palm and let go.
The force of the explosion carried to them as a heavy push to the stomach. Water geysered several feet in the air to fall back with a hissing splash. Fish bellied up to the surface. Rilian carefully took off her new boots and waded in to intercept them. Shouting to the others, she soon had them scooping up the slippery harvest.
It wasn't until they were all walking ashore that they realised Loghain had been keeping watch. He and Rylock exchanged looks, and Rylock nodded shortly to indicate she understood the lesson. Someone was always to be on guard. Always.
After feeding and watering the horses, Loghain, as the experienced fisherman, volunteered to cook. Two of the Night Elves - Surana's boy, Alim, and Murl, a seasoned hunter with a face so seamed with scars it looked like battered leather - helped him rig a long line of frames, made of branches. Butterflying each fish, they lashed them in place. Driving the wood into the ground exposed the rich, red flesh to the direct heat of the campfire. Within minutes the marsh air was redolent with broiling carp. Loghain spoke softly to Rilian, and the two trotted off to scout.
Rylock surprised Wynne by heating a cauldron atop the fire, creating a bubbling sauce flavoured with herbs from the Templar's backpack. Wynne groaned quietly. Rylock's head snapped up.
"Do not judge us all by Alistair's lack of ability," she retorted, "He was a boy when he began his Templar training - he would not have worked in the Chantry kitchens, as I did, before women were allowed to join." She glared at Wynne, daring her to make fun. Wynne gave her an inscrutable smile. The scented smoke rose in the clearing, concentrated by the canopy of grey stone, overgrown vegetation, and velvety moss. Rylock's dark eyes still held a faint defensiveness - a prickly pride in doing a damn good job, no matter her lack of real interest. Wynne could see the child she had been, earning chastisements with just that stubborn silence, holding on to pride as the only thing she owned - so that she could give it up, by her own volition, to the Maker. Despite her scars, her long fingers were surprisingly deft as she sliced and diced the bundles of herbs with peaceful, detached concentration.
"Mmm - I'd have never suspected you had an interest in...botany," Wynne murmured. Instantly the peaceful air vanished and a frown of annoyance creased the Templar's forehead. Wynne remembered a certain prickly mage who sliced herbs with exactly that sparse, efficient technique, and exactly that scowl at any human interruption.
"There's no harm in learning skills of use on the road. Apostates don't keep to well-trodden paths. And knowledge of herbs is invaluable for treating injuries."
"A pity you choose not to rely on magical healing," Wynne said pointedly - thinking that if the Templars had used it five years ago, during the clear-out of the Blood Mage coven in Denerim, Rylock would not carry those scars - and Ser Otto would not be blind. She knew the stubborn Templar would stand on her dignity - her belief that it would have compromised the success of the mission to have a mage present.
Wynne recalled a conversation Rilian had related - between herself and the Grand Oak of the Brecilian forest. She had asked why so many of the wood spirits had been hostile. The answer had been that it was the violent transition to a cage of wood, flesh or bone that caused them to lash out in anger and confusion. They are like me, Rilian had said, with her strange mixture of whimsy and sadness, In my own world I was a docker. Only when uprooted did I become a slayer of dragons. That spirit I fought might have been completely harmless in its own world. It might even have been an administrator of justice. In her darker hours, Wynne sometimes wondered what her own Spirit of Faith might become, if she lost control even for a moment.
Ravenous darted from the rushes, following his nose. Two shadows coalesced behind him - the amber firelight revealed them to be Rilian and Loghain. Ravenous circled them: stealthy, owl-eyed, gleaming. Rilian laughed and chased his tail. They pounced and rolled and frisked back and forth - so much a part of the twilight and the haunted marsh that they didn't disturb Wynne's thoughts at all. Ravenous had the air of assurance of mabari - he didn't condescend to his Elf, and he never talked too much.
"Fraternisation with mages is dangerous," Rylock said flatly, "If we start to rely on you - to think of you as allies - we might one day let down the people we protect from you."
"Hmm - it seems to me you were doing some fraternising yourself, the other night," Rilian said brightly. She came up behind Rylock and plopped down next to the cooking pot. Ravenous lolloped next to her. He sniffed the air, raised his head, and whined eagerly.
Rylock gave a violent start, face the colour of tomato juice. She cut accusing eyes to Loghain, then to Wynne. They met her silent look of betrayal with small shakes of their heads. Staring at the ground, Rylock mumbled something unintelligible that sounded like: "We are none of us without sin."
Rilian blinked - amazed her quip had gotten such a reaction. "Rylock! Do you think the Maker will punish you just for drinking with a mage?"
Wynne saw with dismay that Rylock could not meet the Warden's eyes. She had never seen the stoic Templar this uncomfortable. Rylock's plain face was furnished with such stark, functional honesty that any half-truths, any omissions showed up like patches of damp. I don't tell lies...It was true - and any minute the Templar was going to blurt out a truth that would embarrass all three of them. Loghain, Wynne saw with a touch of sourness, was looking more amused than embarrassed. Men!
But it was Loghain who swooped in to save the day (Alistair had been wrong: swooping was not - always - bad...). "Humph - according to "The Search For The True Prophet" Andraste could have been a mage herself."
Rylock sat bolt-upright, her embarrassment forgotten in her outrage. "That - is blasphemy! Andraste was not a mage."
Loghain leaned forward, a not-entirely-pleasant grin quirking his lips. The flickering light and shadow gave his face a predatory cast, like a wolf blending perfectly with the night. "Show me the verse in the Chant where she denies using magic. What else could have caused the plagues visited on Tevinter?"
Rilian joined the debate, her young, softly-angular face thoughtful as she interrupted Rylock's furious retort: "Suppose - for the sake of argument - Andraste were a mage. Would that deny her relationship with the Maker? You said to me: The mage I trust is the mage who kills himself - meaning one who will not misuse power even to save his life. Would she not qualify? She had power - and she gave it up because she knew the right way was to change men's hearts, not kill them. If she was a mage she was everything a mage should be."
Rylock glowered into her sauce. "This conversation is over." She stirred savagely, taking out her irritation on the innocent pot. It did not occur to her that Loghain's baiting had gotten her off the hook with the Warden's line of questioning. Wynne and Loghain traded a small, secret smile. Rilian shrugged, rose, and darted toward the decrepit hut, where no man dared step close. Murl - sitting across from her and working on his dagger - sucked in a breath. "What are you doing?"
"Morrigan told me her mother kept jars of home-made wine. I thought we'd liven up the evening."
"You're going into the dragon's den?!"
Rilian giggled. "Big tough rebel! Flemeth may have been an evil dragoness but Morrigan is human - well, sort of..." Wynne smiled to herself, thinking of the glittering ochre eyes, the perfected diamond of a face - that of a crystalline predator. "Anyway, even dragons can enjoy home-made wine." She returned a short while later, carrying a dusty, suspicious-looking bottle. She uncorked it and sniffed appreciatively. "Plum wine - as I'm an Elven sinner! This will wash the dinner down...hmm, the marsh water isn't pure enough to drink. Guess I'll have to take it straight." The appalled glances of Rylock and Loghain convinced Wynne to try to the wine too, just to annoy them. She and Rilian swallowed appreciatively. The flavour was surprisingly good - sweet and rich, with a kick at the end not dissimilar to Flemeth's dragon form.
Rilian beamed. "We're going to have some high old dreams tonight, Wynne."
"Of all the mages seduced by Fade demons, I wonder how many were simply too drunk to say `No`?" Rylock muttered.
Wynne pointedly turned away, inferring the remark was beneath her dignity.
Ill humour was forgotten when Loghain served the fish, with Rylock's sauce and the Dalish travel-bread as an accompaniment. The dangers of the marshlands seemed far away: eclipsed by the task that awaited them. In defiance of what lay ahead, humans, City Elf and Night Elves were determined this night should be a celebration. Loghain sat on a log, munching trail bread and fish while feeding Ravenous, who lay curled beside the old warrior. Rilian brought her lute and serenaded them. She played and sang for hours, while expressions of pain and joy, sorrow and passion beyond her years passed across her eyes like clouds blown by the wind.
...The night is dark; the moon is full
Above the blood-red plain
And every pace and every breath
Brings me nearer home
Oh spirits watch me on my way
They whisper in the wind
And when the dawn lights up the sky
I'll see my land again
The hot wind blows the scrub and dust
Across the barren land
The trees stand bare like skeletons
and the mountains are torn down
The water-holes are dry as bone
No birds are singing now
And far away the city stands:
Tombstones against the sky...
Loghain smiled abstractedly: by the third song he had abandoned any pretence of oiling his bow and was listening with an oddly peaceful expression on his granite-hard face. Half-way through the evening, Surana, Clayden, Darrian and Aris rejoined the company and Murl, Ortis, Tia and Varel took over the watch.
Alim Surana began to teach Rilian a rebel song - Silent Strikes The Elf. Rilian's pure contralto encompassed about the same range as Alim's soaring counter-tenor, and the two voices blended as well as any duo Wynne had ever heard. The last notes faded away, leaving an invisible bond between the two singers. Their gazes clung for a moment, then slid away, a little self-conscious. Alim took a deep breath, and raised his eyes to his companions. His expression was defiant - quickly becoming bewildered as his fellow Night Elves broke into applause.
"Skill and talent!" Pir Surana whooped, raising his mug to his son in salute. His bald head reflected the firelight like a bone-hard moon, and the play of light and shadows across his face exaggerated his gaunt, scarred features.
"Here," Rilian said, smiling, handing the lute to Alim and ceding the storyteller's place. But Alim blushed and gave it back. "You play, Warden."
Sensing it best not to push him, Rilian took up the lute and played a very different ballad - one Zevran had taught her. Wynne doubted the young woman knew the meaning of even half of it. The song told how the Queen of Antiva visited the Empress Celene. Unimpressed by her wild party, she advised her to seek out the House of Crows for some lessons in debauchery. The Empress did so, and the rest of the song told of the competition between Empress and assassins to outdo each other in merriment. It was, without doubt, the most obscene song in Zevran's considerable repertoire of off-colour tales.
When the laughter and bawdy comments had died away, Rilian continued with a comic retelling of the early adventures of their little band - during the safe times - the getting-to-know-each-other times. Only Wynne had seen the encounters first-hand, and doubted the rest of their companions would have recognised the grim battles from Rilian's swashbuckling retelling. Only once did Rilian's smile slip - when telling how she had found the Qunari blade, Asala. Wynne, too, felt the chilly ache of loss.
When Rilian told the story of Ravenous and Old Barlin Wynne was startled to hear Rylock laugh: a guilty snort, quickly suppressed. Rylock was so ashamed of it she would not even smile for the whole of the rest of the telling. She thinks the Maker doesn't like to hear her laugh, Wynne thought, shaking her head. Rylock was so repressed that when her emotions did surface they were pure: bald and spontaneous. A face like glass reflected them like a mirror.
When the last dying notes faded into the purple twilight, Rylock startled Wynne by saying quietly:
"I know that you are right in your explanation of the Templar powers." With that rare courage that insisted on facing any truth, no matter how disturbing, unpleasant, or challenging, she had seen the logic. "No Templar would have taught you - and if these were Holy Powers, you could not have learned. It must be we who learned from you: choosing, like the Wardens, to fight fire with fire." Rylock leaned forward, resting her scarred forearms on her knees, steepling her fingers. Her ascetic face held an odd, closed fierceness; her tough keen eyes were those of a hawk. Wynne had seen that look elsewhere. Before the years stole his mind, Senior Enchanter Sweeney had faced her like that, long fingers steepled, dry logic lit from within by lucent passion for truth. Rhetoric was his weapon: the clear, cold arguments that came from conviction not by rote. When Rylock said: "That doesn't change the fact that we serve the Maker, and protect innocents" in a voice shivering with intensity, the resemblance was unmistakable.
Wynne leaned forward, her instinct to meet the challenge. Like a predator, she pursued. "No - it doesn't," she agreed, "But you have not thought of all the implications. If we mages have the Templar ability to negate magic, we can police ourselves. And given that all abilities come originally from the Maker, did He not intend us to?"
Searching for signs her shot had told, Wynne was not prepared for Rylock's small, dry smile. "A pity, then, that you have proven so poor at it, making it necessary for we Templars to intervene."
Outrage popped Wynne's balloon of satisfaction. "Why - you insufferable..."
Rylock managed to keep a poker face, but her dark eyes held a smug smile to rival Wynne's own. "Think about it. Your words may be true - in an ideal world - if all humans were like Andraste. You ignore the fact that power corrupts. Mages controlled by mage-watchdogs is a recipe for caste - for these wardens to charge higher and higher prices for doing what mundanes cannot. Why should mages care about mundanes - a species to whom they bear no more relation than a tiger to a house cat? We Templars may be "low-level, artificially-created mages fuelled by lyrium" - if nothing else, an excellent cure for my sin of pride -" Wynne smiled, despite herself, at the bone-dry, dead-pan humour "- but our very ordinariness is our strength. We are the people we defend. Anyone can become a Templar; thus humanity will always have recourse to our powers. We will not be able to become tyrants."
"Except that the Chantry holds the knowledge and supplies of lyrium," Wynne interjected cuttingly, "They are as much a tyrant as your mage-watch-dogs would have been."
"Then show me a better alternative. Would nations use magic for good? How would Loghain have used Uldred? How did Orlais use Enchanter Remille? How would you have fared if left among your village? Power corrupts: either the mages, or those who would use them."
"Remember what we saw among the Dalish? Mages and non-mages linked by ties of blood and friendship? Magic used to benefit the Clan."
"I will believe that the day I see a Clan led by a non-mage Keeper. Even among communities, power rises to the top. Last night, the Warden told me of Zathrien's Curse..."
Wynne shook her head, wishing Rilian would learn to hold her tongue. Rylock really did not need any more ammunition. She had not inherited her parents' magic but she had her father's wit. Wynne wondered what her response would be if she knew to whom she owed that particular weapon. She had been going to cite Marethari but the words slid away, strangely elusive. What would Marethari do, if forced to choose between her Clan and the apprentice she loved?
Once more, Wynne felt the dry crackling of her magic, as she gave every last drop - smelled the acrid stench of the abominations - felt the blinding pain as her head hit the stone. Darkness - defeat - desperation...not for herself but for her children. Wynne knew her choice was wrong - against everything she taught - but faced with the deaths of her children that did not matter. How could mages resist demons when the weapon they used was love? For a moment, she felt real anger towards Rylock. Rylock and her ilk could imitate a mage's powers without paying the price. They didn't have to fear the night - the demons watching and waiting in dreams. They didn't have to hold themselves to impossible standards to resist. I wonder - if darkspawn could think for themselves - would they be jealous of Wardens?
Her dark train of thought was broken by Rilian - sitting herself comfortably between them. Without the slightest embarrassment, she confessed to having eavesdropped.
"It seems to me," she said brightly, "That with the spread of technology - and communication - and economy - the gap between mages and non-mages will close. The less mundanes need to fear mages, the more chance of us living side-by-side."
"Regardless of other forms of power," Rylock said dryly, "The man who can boil blood with his mind has the distinct advantage."
I always thought it was Arl Howe who used his Blood Mages, but who was leading whom? How did the Arl know of Jowan's defection from the Tower? I'm almost certain the Mage's Collective are a peaceful organisation, committed to abiding by the Chantry's laws - but how else could such information have been passed? And the Tevinters - for how long have they been operating from the shadows?
"I've got your protection against Blood Magic," Rilian said brightly, "The Litany. Remember when I used it against Uldred in the Tower?"
Wynne's thoughts flew back to the Tower - to that night of blood and storm and perversion. The decaying hulk that had burst from Uldred's withered skin - mages shedding their larval forms, he had said - the animal cries of his victims as the demons wore their forms like trophies - the shimmering blue energy of the portal to the Fade; the two worlds co-existing, impossibly, side-by-side. After Rylock had saved Rilian from enslavement by a demon wearing Nelaros' face the young Warden had stepped into the Harrowing Chamber carrying a scroll taken from Niall's dead hand - and a fiddle that glowed insubstantially. An echo of her dream-wedding given life by Rilian's belief and the magical energies in the Tower.
The ancient Litany of Adralla had been hidden among labyrinthine shelves and the dust of ages - part of a lost tradition of magic written in musical notation. Wynne had realised that anyone could cast the spell - anyone who could sing the notes. Rilian had given the scroll to Leliana - the only one of them who could read the Tevinter language - but when the bard had been struck by Uldred's Ice Storm Rilian had had to take over. Wynne had been braced for failure - Rilian could only sing in the common tongue - but she had sang and played on the ghostly fiddle, swaying like a snake-charmer and watched by myriad pairs of mad unblinking eyes - proving that the magic was in the melody, not the words.
"After seeing you in the Tower, I cannot deny the Litany works for non-mages, without the use of Templar powers," Rylock admitted, more thoughtful than chagrined. "A powerful anti-magical ability, written in musical notation. This is what you were trying to tell me after we fought the Sloth Demon."
"Actually, no," Rilian confessed, "I had no idea it could be cast by a non-mage. I'd wondered why a spell like that was hidden away - why Irving hadn't tried to use it." Her feathery red brows furrowed. "Come to think of it, I can see why. Irving's voice reminds me of my cat One-Eyed-Sal on an alley fence."
Wynne stifled laughter - though one little snort broke through.
"But I'm getting off-track," Rilian continued, giving herself a little shake, "Shianni always tells me not to let my mind wander, as it's too small to go off by itself..."
"You were saying?" Rylock prompted with the trace of a smile.
"Indeed I was. The point is: I'm neither a mage nor a Templar, yet I was able to resist Blood Magic through music. I believe this has always been part of the lost Elven lore - I shared memories with an Arcane Warrior spirit who showed me visions of Elven Bladesingers from the time of Arlathan. If this Tevinter mage gained her knowledge from the Elves and passed it down as a defence against her countrymen, think what this means! Templars, mages and ordinary folk using the Litany could work together against Blood Magic. And there are other ways - did you know that Alistair can use the Templar powers without lyrium? You should train all folk in the use of the Templar powers. If everyone could resist magic there'd be no more need to fear mages. Maybe the best Templars are those who render themselves unnecessary. Do you see what I'm saying?"
"I think so," Rylock said unexpectedly, "I want to." Wynne was surprised - until she remembered what Rylock had suffered at the hands of that long-ago maleficar. Rylock cared nothing for mages - but she did care about the victims of Blood Magic, more than she cared for the glory of the Templars.
Loghain was pursuing a different train of thought. "So, Warden," he drawled, voice deceptively mild, "You counsel the giving up of Templar secrets. Will you do the same for your own Order?"
There was a hint of almost every emotion on Rilian's face - idealism and anger and regret. Very quietly, she said: "Do you think I don't know why you're here? How you planned to use Jowan and the Joining mixture? You didn't have to do that. It's true I had meant to use my Joining for my own purposes - to demand justice for my people. As one of only three Wardens in Ferelden, I could have named my price. I was wrong. The battle - all those dead...Sten...Ser Perth - I saw how small I had been. I will share the Wardens' knowledge - that way even if we three die Ferelden will be able to create more. Wardens not bound to me - nor Weisshaupt nor Montsimmard - and nor to you, Loghain. No-one will be able to hold anyone else to ransom - and no one organisation will be able to twist the Wardens' purpose."
"It also means any idiot can misuse it," Rylock cautioned.
"Yes," Rilian agreed, "I know. It reminds me of a story my father told me - about a girl who opened a forbidden box. It contained the knowledge of the gods. I think Marethari would have liked that story." Rilian laughed quietly. "Father meant to remind me of another Alienage saying - that curiosity killed the cat. But I always saw the girl as a hero. Knowledge shared can be misused - but it is better than the alternative. The gifts to mortals outweigh the cost."
So - a balance of power. What would the First Warden do? Wynne wanted to warn Rilian that her plan was a trap that would never lose its danger.
Rilian, Loghain and Rylock were still debating the argument. Wynne found her thoughts drifting...whispering to her like the butterfly voice of Faith...Andraste had chosen to die because sacrifice held greater power than magic. Wynne remembered wondering whether all the years of her life - all the days and nights of study and sleep - would add up to something in the end. Did she have whatever believed in sacrifice - and paid the cost? It was a question as seductive as it was frightening.
At last the evening drew to a close and the last of Rilian's notes seemed to hang above the marsh-grasses, fading to silence. Elusive lights flickered above the slate-grey water, winking hauntingly. Rilian helped the others pack away the remnants of the night's feast, then decided that instead of joining Wynne and Rylock in their tent she would make use of Flemeth's hut. Enjoying the appalled glances of Rylock, Loghain and the Elves, she sauntered over, pushing open the creaking wooden door. Ravenous followed her. Rilian reached down and stroked the tufts of hair beneath the soft folds of his ears. The bunk bed Morrigan had shared with her mother reminded her of the bed she and Shianni had shared back home.
The hut was loaded with pottery jars, all labelled in an ancient, spidery scrawl. Lovage, elderflower, iris, aniseed, dittany, hellebore, fennel, rue, dill, hemlock, belladonna, rosemary... Underneath the shelves was a long table loaded with less savoury objects. There were books that smelled of rotten parchment, and a row of empty vials with curious glass pipettes. Syringes, Rilian recognised, thinking of Wynne's medical tools. She made a mental note to take them with her. Her eyes fell upon a scrap of parchment whose design mirrored the sere and leafless branches upon Flemeth's true grimoire - the tome she had given to Morrigan. A tree of bone - the deathshadow of the Silver Tree of Elven legend. Rilian lit a fire in the grate. Friendly flames leapt up, and Ravenous curled up in contentment upon a floor of old rushes that smelled like the mabari's breath. Rilian did not mind the aroma of steam and smoke, herbs and parchment, wet rags and goose grease. The flames swayed and danced like golden petals.
She was just about to spread her bedroll across the wooden slats of the upper bunk when a sudden idea shook her. She hesitated - her body was a mass of bruises and the hard bunk looked exquisitely inviting. But the idea would not be denied. With a sigh and a shrug, she took out quill and journal from her backpack and settled to write by the orange glow of a small candle. It glowered and smouldered like a sulky little demon.
She had been thinking of the story of her defeat of the dragon when - a little reluctantly - the memory of her real tactics had broken through the heroic fantasy. She had created what was known back home as an "Alienage cocktail" - a mixture of oil and distilled alcohol in a glass bottle, its mouth wrapped with cloth, used against guards during the summer riots. Cyrion and Shianni had kept her well away from these - but Alarith had shown her. She had lit the cloth, and one deft flick of her wrist had sent the bottle soaring - straight into the dragon's open maw at the exact moment Flemeth was about to unleash her fiery breath. The resulting explosion had nearly killed her - but it had stunned the dragon long enough for Wynne to finish it off with magic. It occurred to Rilian that a bottle filled with spirit poison might have the same effect on an Archdemon. She sketched a quick design: Dworkin's crossbow adapted to shoot hollow glass bullets to shatter on impact...the image wavered, and she was once more standing on a ledge above a boiling river, the Archdemon roaring below, shadows of taint writhing across the colourless dive of its wings. She expanded the drawing to include a means of firing from Valendrian's glider. Better still would be to use Dworkin's blackpowder to collapse the stone atop the creature. As the only Warden nearby, proximity would still ensure she made the Ultimate Sacrifice.
The wingbeat of a strange song pulsed in her head: a dark dirge akin to Urthemiel's Call. She recalled the twisted creature that had sloughed off Uldred's skin like a defiled garment - the still-raw memories of her Fade dream - the moment when the ghostly wedding fiddle had become an extension of her will. There in the Harrowing Chamber she had played the Litany, adding her own words:
...I woke up and he was screaming
I'd left him dreaming
I'll roll over and hold him tightly
And whisper, "If they want you
Oh they're going to have to fight me"
Oh fight me...
The eerie music was so like the dark web of the Song that she wondered: demons and darkspawn - was there a connection? Were demons really the Lost children of Arlathan - and had they tempted the Tevinter Magisters into defiling the Golden City? Even so, how could these few men have spread their taint so far - who had created the first Broodmothers?
Her head drooped, her thought scattered like butterflies on the wind, images and concepts blending together. Marethari's story bled into her own anguished cry: Why has no-one sought a cure for the Taint...and Shianni's voice: "Don't worry, cousin - I can't catch the Tevinter plague. I had marshfever as a child"...
Idly, Rilian continued her sketching by the single candleflame that made a pale oasis of light in the shadows of the hut. She wanted to create an instrument that echoed the wail of the dream-music. She experimented with a longer, slimmer version of her lute, with runes of lightning that would charge the strings with electricity. Then she began to write the chords. Her eyes burned; her cheeks glowed - notes came like troops of obedient genii to the call of her quill...
Ravenous stirred fitfully in sleep, making little mewling barks. Rilian heard the Song - her own personal Calling - was compelled to follow the siren music through the spiral staircase of her mind, downwards and inside into unbearable intensity. It was like falling in love with the open jaws of a shark: the aspiring vacuum of marriage to the naked dark. That instant, eternal plummet and soar into the vast, redemptive, ruinous night the Archdemon had taught her to know and fear and love. She saw her mother's swollen stump - youth and grace torn apart and shamed - and felt a kinship with the debased Dragon of Beauty.
Unbidden, Mother Boann's words of comfort came to her mind: "Do not remember her like this. Death isn't terrible. There are beautiful things on the other side of the Veil. Adaia will be there, as on the other side of a curtain, never very far away. But life has something for you - I feel it. Go forward to meet it fearlessly, dear."
It had always seemed to Rilian that she was very, very near that world beyond the Veil. She could never draw it aside, but sometimes - just for a moment - it was as if a wind fluttered it, and she heard an echo of the enchanting realm beyond - a note of unearthly music. This moment came rarely; went swiftly. She could never recall it, never summon it, never imagine it - but its wonder stayed with her for days, making her feel a joy that was like tears and a despair of translating its beauty into any chords she knew. The moment she thought of as "the spark" had first come when she was eight years old, and she had seen a luminous pulsating star touch the highest branch of the Vhenadahl. The inchoate sense of two majesties meeting had brought her wonder moment and stayed with her forever. It had come with a high, wild note of wind in the night - with the glass bubbles in Habren's paperweight that seemed so much like far-off worlds - with a shower of light streaming through the Chantry's stained glass windows - and with the spirit-like sheen of ice upon the Vhenadahl, gilding its branches and creating a tree of silver. When the spark came Rilian felt the world was an instrument on which the Maker played - a sweetness she could never match. There was something beyond music - any music, all music - that always escaped when she tried to grasp it yet left something in her hand she wouldn't have had if she hadn't reached for it.
At last her candle went out with a sputter and hiss in its little pool of melted tallow. A gout of sparks lifted from the hearthfire like stained glass in motion. Rilian saw herself: a single hissing spark...had a sense of light and heat expanding from an infinite point, setting the dark on fire.
Were there sparks of darkness as potent? Could darkness spread, as fire spread, from its sparks?
The sparks coalesced to become the Silver Tree. In the moment between waking and sleeping, the images unrolled before her against the staccato background of a shower of rain: as if the finite were for a second infinity...as if mortality put on immortality - as if all ugliness had vanished, leaving only flawless beauty.
She fell asleep with a sense of completion and victory, borne of the working out of her creative impulse, and dreamed to the lullaby of the rain.
Song inspirations were:
The Litany of Adralla: Laura Marling - Night Terror
Journey To Ostagar: The Pogues – Tombstone
AN: I'd like to thank Arsinoe for her thought-provoking review of Chapter Fifteen - and subsequent PMs - your comments on the nature of magic being a sliding scale, and the Templars' "Holy Smite" and "Cleanse Area" being identical to the Spirit School's "Mana Clash" and "Anti-Magic Burst" were the inspiration behind the scene in which Wynne and Rylock fight together.